(so i've had this idea floating around in my head for some time- and it's probably overly-dramatic, i am probably not portraying the situation as i want to or as needs be, it probably is hard to follow. what inspired it was this car crash my dad witnessed two months ago, and then at the time i was reading "helter skelter" and i had just seen "the laramie project" so the fact i'm trying to tie these three events together makes absolutely no sense, but, forgive me, i go off at the end and i don't think it's as strong or as good as i was hoping it'd be.)

"it all came down"

she was driving to work that summer day and her hair, her breath smelled of coffee

husband exchanged sloppy kisses and automatically,

doesn't think about it, "love you dear, see you later"

never knowing that the strangely vague said "later"

would never come into being

if only they'd been blessed with the afterthought of the gift of all-seeing

the warm sun shines down lovingly on strawberry blonde curls and

the radio plays those forgotten songs and she thinks about the life she has built up

in her twenty-odd years, the baby stirring inside of her

the names they picked out and disagreed on this way, that way and her due-date in two weeks

the impending motherhood awaiting her with open arms, a field to cross

and maybe if she hadn't been distracted by the distant ringing of her cell phone,

maybe the blood-fierce blood-red blood-lusting buick would have stopped

but the fates; they play different, fickle games.

one wrong turn and two worlds intertwined, collided, joined forever at the hips and twisted metal by one defining moment.

this is how it reads:

he is not a bad man. he is not a criminal, he is not a villian.

he is a simple, destroyed soul with impaired vision and two divorces under his belt and a son that he hasn't seen since two christmases ago in a photo.

he's driving too fast on his way to the only bar open in town that early,

he knows it (oh, he knows it)

but he's dealing cards with the devil and with a reckless scowl,

he's not about to back down.

he is not a bad man but he is aggravated,

he should have stopped at the sign,

his gnarled hands turning with too quick of a jerk,

as if he is moses and the asphault sea should dare to part for him.

and he sees a car coming so fast up that he doesn't know what it is,

if it's even a car or some malevolent spirit,

some destructive angel sent by satan with glowing orbs and a distinguished metal snarl

a titan locked out from under the earth come to seek its due & he knows this is it

the sinking doom in the pit of his stomach on the edge of his seat for nary a second

maybe even sees the woman's sudden all-knowing fear encompassing her sapphire blue eyes,

but he cannot stop, he cannot do a damned thing as hard as he tries and

his wasted life (a bad movie he cannot escape the seat no matter how vehemently he disputes)

flashes before him in the moment of total impact, death and destruction.

the carnage is intolerable. (the first-responders will gasp and recoil and a young man two weeks into the job runs into the bushes to vomit all over his boots.)

it is the moment the boy tied to the fence stares at the stars and wonders when death

will come and kindly ride him away

with the blood mixed with the fresh saline on his face,

a boy who did nothing but live the only way he knew he was met to live, and

others heartlessly crushed him for not meeting their supposed standards of what qualifies as normal & the abodiminable "is not."

it is the moment the young starlet is jerked harshly to the floor in a heap with her dead friend who died in her name,

sees the wild-eyed girl, wielding the knife like a prize above her, and begs

for not her life but her unborn child's and it is all a losing battle.

the calamity digs deep,

the whole house is eradicated, with an unthinkable brutality and a young boy with nothing on his mind but his god damned radio is gunned down in his car as 'collateral damage' and innocence ends

in the simmering august heat.

hollywood nods; only in her death does the rising (but crashed, crashed, crashed) star get top billing.

it all came down.

towers collapses, fortresses crumble,

subterfuges melt and houses burn long into the night

because nothing here is eternal or even offered that devastating promise.

and they all know that,

in the world for a moment,

there is so much to live for,

but another human being is proclaiming their destiny

in their callous and clammy hold and that destiny

is an untimely death as unseasonable as the cold in the heart of june

that the papers will write about for months.

like a virgin offering to a somber god, an unreachable immortality and the thoughtless actions of others come rising up as fast as embers,

dancing on the walls long after the flames have burnt out, unmistakeable.

family members come down to the morgue and they are aware

as they grip their paper tissues and sob,

they are well aware but

still tenderly breastfeed any fantasies lingering in the backs of their delirious heads

(it's not her, it can't be her. i just saw her yesterday & she was so. full. of. life.)

the sheet is jerked back,

the husband looks up

and feebly whispers affirmation as if to admit defeat.

he will not sleep in that house for a month and a half, the wedding pictures and never-used nursery only serve to mock him &

his continued existence.

the only hands that will ever touch his child, hold his child

are those of the man in red-stained surgical scrubs and the disposable gloves.

and in the morning, no one saw this coming, in the morning, it was every other fresh new morning from here to eternity.

but eternity is entirely too far away and so, so incomprehensible to those who stand watching.

well, someone will clutch their children extra tight and extra close tonight.

someone will say a prayer and splash themselves with holy water.

people will bring fresh-cut bouquets, plastic crosses,

signs of solace to a sight on the side of the road outside a convenience store and gas station, otherwise unknown on a regular map.

a bewildered manager stares blankly from the window (he was the first to see too much.)

someone will cry from the depths of a lonely and broken soul for him, for her, for the child and everything

that he held so precious that was lost so soon and senselessly.

older people weep for a daughter

they'd like to seen their grandchild's baptism and first sports games and laudable piano recitals.

the other man was just part of a scene, another player, if anything a murderer and is a footnote, as if he never was brought into this life in the first place, a mistake two young lovers made one wistful summer night.

and somewhere else

other people will dance, sing, make love, fight, fuck, sweat and laugh as if nothing is wrong

because, to them, nothing IS wrong

and- someday will forget, everyone will forget (we all forget given the time and the condition right)-

everyone but those with the permanent impressions burnt forever on their souls, who will live on as if nothing is wrong

but are haunted by ghosts of things in past present and future, stuck in the constant grind and motion.

the public will lose its interest and the roadside memorials and talk show appearances and interviews will fade

into school shootings and more homicides and car bombings and then they will slip into unconsciousness too,

for, again and again like a repetitve sweep of the hand back and forth, the aged and cynic world

halts for no one.